Chapter 81

Amelia

The thing about Jenny was that she never needed to say something out loud for everyone to hear it. You just had to feel the shift, like a current changing direction or a glance that doesn't linger anymore, a laugh that doesn’t come when it should have, or a cold wind brushing the back of your neck that wasn’t there yesterday.

By Wednesday, Adam looks like he's standing in a draft, and I can feel it too, the way her eyes slide past him like he’s not even part of the room anymore, the way her voice clips shorter whenever he asks her something, like she’s barely tolerating the sound of his questions.

I don’t know what she sees when he looks at me, but I know she doesn’t like it, and now that I’m secretly hooking up with her father, I’m on high alert for any shift in her mood, any edge to her voice, any sideways glance that lingers too long. The truth is, she never needs much of a reason.

She runs Monday’s meeting with her usual clipped cheer, tapping her stylus against the edge of the tablet like a gavel, a rhythm that feels more pointed than usual. Crisis Communications comes up. My name doesn’t.

“There must be a mistake,” I say, lifting my hand and trying to keep my tone light, controlled. “Nathan told me I’d be on Crisis Comms for the border brief.”

Jenny doesn’t even blink. “Plans shifted,” she says, scanning the room without looking at me. “We need senior voices in that room.”

“I wrote the first draft.”

“Exactly,” she replies with that polished smile that could cut glass. “You already got a great learning opportunity.”

My cheeks burn, hot and prickly. Nobody looks at me, or if they do, it’s quick, pitying, sharp, the kind of glance people give a car crash they’re trying not to slow down for. Emma hands me a coffee afterward with a look I don’t want to interpret.

“She’s icing you out,” she says quietly.

“She’s just being Jenny.”

“She’s burning bridges,” Emma whispers, lowering her voice further. “Just... be careful.”

I try not to notice the way Jenny leans in close with Lydia Park, the new communications liaison with the too-bright eyes and the red-striped badge that screams clearance and confidence. But it’s hard to ignore. Hard not to notice the new center of gravity in the office shifting around them. Lydia’s laugh floats down the hallway like perfume, airy and practiced. Everything about her feels temporary and dangerous.

By Thursday, Jenny doesn’t bother pretending anymore. She corrects me in front of the entire team over something I didn’t even say, and when I try to clarify, she cuts me off. Lydia takes the questions that used to come to me. Adam notices. Of course he notices. His face is like stone in the meeting, eyes darting between me and Jenny, something bitter curling at the edges of his expression that hadn’t been there before.

I go to Richard.

“She’s pulling rank,” I say, pacing in front of his desk. “It’s deliberate.”

He watches me from behind his desk, fingers steepled in front of him, wearing that unreadable expression that means he’s already calculating the next ten moves.

“Jenny doesn’t like losing control,” he says. “When she feels threatened, she pushes back. If she goes further, tell me.”

“She already is.”

He doesn’t argue. Just nods once, like he’s tucking that information into some private ledger.

The next day, uniformed soldiers arrive just after ten. They move like ghosts, quiet and efficient, without announcement or explanation. Just clipboards, sharp eyes, and a kind of tension that makes everyone sit up straighter. I hear the word "leak" whispered by the copier, then again by the vending machine.

Someone has leaked military movement data, and at this rate, this campaign isn’t going to have a single private document left by the end of the month.

At lunch, two soldiers approach my desk.

“Amelia? You’re needed for an internal interview.”

Emma’s hand brushes mine under the desk. I squeeze it, give her a small nod, and stand to follow them, trying to keep my breathing steady.

The interview room is sterile and small, a windowless box with two chairs, a table, and a sweating pitcher of water I don’t touch.

“State your name.”

I do.

“How often do you access Alpha-level devices?”

“I don’t.”

“You were logged near the server corridor last Thursday.”

“The elevators were down. I took the stairs. I had hard copies for Policy. I didn’t enter any restricted area.”

“Do you communicate with anyone off-network?”

“No.”

The questions keep coming, names of people I’ve interacted with after hours: Emma, Nathan, the print vendor. Then:

“Are you seeing anyone romantically?”

My spine stiffens. “I’m not discussing my personal life.”

They scribble something in a folder, but don’t look up right away. One of them taps a pen against the edge of the folder and says,

"You hesitated when we asked about your personal life."

"Because it’s not relevant to the leak," I say, keeping my voice even.

The other soldier raises an eyebrow. "You’re spending a lot of after-hours time here. Any reason we should be concerned about how close you are to the Alpha?"

My throat tightens, but I hold the stare. "No. There’s no reason for concern."

They finally look up. "You’re free to go."

The office looks exactly the same when I return, but it doesn’t feel the same. It feels like walking back into a room where someone has read your diary and then closed it just before you walked in.

I sit down and open my drawer. Everything is wrong. Pens are out of place, folders crooked. Nothing’s missing, but everything’s been touched.

I file a report. Security says they searched the room and tells me it probably wasn’t personal.

It feels personal.

I stay late. The office empties slowly, lights switching off row by row. The air conditioner kicks on and off, louder without the usual buzz of voices to cover it. I’m still typing when the door opens.

Richard.

He closes the door quietly behind him.

“You shouldn’t be here,” I say.

“I could say the same to you.”

“They asked if you leave after me,” I say. “They’re trying to build a timeline.”

“I told them we keep opposite hours.”

I stand, stretching my arms. The tension between us sharpens in the low light.

“They went through my drawers,” I say. “It wasn’t random.”

He steps closer. “Until this calms down, don’t trust anyone except Nathan.”

“Not even Emma?”

“Emma has too many loyalties.”

We stand in silence, and through the walls we can hear the muffled hum of voices, someone laughing faintly in the hallway.

“I shouldn’t still want you,” I say, my voice barely a whisper.

He doesn’t say anything. Just steps forward and kisses me, like that’s the only answer he has left to give.

It’s fast and rough, like something that’s been waiting too long. He lifts me onto the desk and kisses me like the world’s ending and we’re the only ones who know it. I don’t stop him. I can’t. His hands are steady. Mine are shaking.

Footsteps.

He moves quickly, pulls me down, and guides me under the desk just as the doorknob jiggles. A key scrapes the lock but doesn’t catch. Someone mutters and walks off.

I’m still shaking. He crouches beside me, touches my arm gently.

“You okay?”

I nod.

We don’t speak again. We just move, quiet, desperate, like we’ve both decided not to waste a second. The world outside is still happening, voices passing through the hallway, the soft hum of overhead lights, but I’m under the desk with the Alpha King’s hand pressed gently over my mouth, and all I can focus on is the way my heart is beating so hard it feels like he can feel it too.

After, he helps me up, smooths my blouse, and presses a kiss to my temple.

“I’ll text Nathan. Make sure you get home safe.”

“I can walk myself.”

“I know.”

He pauses at the door and looks back at me. “We’re not safe here, Amelia. Not tonight.”

“I know.”